


five times brosca didn't look up at the sky and one time she did

by thievinghippo



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age: Origins
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-05-12
Updated: 2018-05-12
Packaged: 2019-05-05 21:12:14
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,881
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14627130
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thievinghippo/pseuds/thievinghippo
Summary: She grew up on tales of surfacers falling up into the sky. How is a duster supposed to find peace with those fears refusing to leave her head?





	five times brosca didn't look up at the sky and one time she did

**I.**

“Halt.”

Brosca stops at once, hearing the authority in the guard’s voice. That authority means power, means he has the ability to lock her up and throw away the key. She’s already been in enough jail cells these past few days and would prefer not to be put in another. Gripping the straps of the pack on her back, Brosca concentrates down at the dirt on the ground. Already it even _looks_ different than the dirt in Dust Town, not as settled or lived in. If this is just a tunnel, how would the ground on the surface look?

“Yes?” Duncan asks, his voice displaying the same maddeningly calm demeanor he’s had since Brosca met him. He places his hand on her shoulder and it takes all of her effort not to wrench herself away.

“I’m speaking to the Casteless,” the guard says. “You ever been to the surface before?”

Brosca shakes her head, still staring at the ground, knowing she must look like an absolute fool in front of these men, terrified about the journey to come. The surface. Just the name scares her, but what choice does she have? If she takes one step back in Dust Town, she’s dead. The most she can hope for is that the noble Rica’s been hunting knocks her up with a boy somehow. Then maybe Rica and her mother will be safe.

“When you get out there, whatever you do, don’t look up,” the guard says, not unkindly. “Just look at the ground for a while and get your bearings.”

“Thank you,” Brosca says quietly, hearing a weakness in her voice she hates. Somehow, she’ll have to get through this. She’ll have to start a new life for herself. Never in her life has Brosca been content with the status quo. When her family needed food, instead of cleaning the streets for coin like her mother, she taught herself how to use a bow and hunted nugs. When Rica needed to learn how to read and write as part of of her role as a noble hunter, Brosca taught herself so she could help Rica practice.

And if she is to be forced from the only life she has ever known, Brosca will be the best damn Grey Warden she can.

“What time of day is it?” Duncan asks.

“Just after sunrise,” the guard says. “Won’t be too bright out yet. Casteless, when the sun reaches it’s peak, your skin will probably burn.”

His words finally force Brosca to look away from the ground, and focus on Duncan. Dread, cool and slippery, slithers in her stomach, threatening to take over. She’s heard lots of tales about the surface but not that she could be burned alive.

“You’ve never felt the sun on your skin before,” Duncan says, his voice soft. “You’ll be very sensitive to sunlight for a few days. We’ll try to stay in the shadows as best we can as we travel. I’m hoping by the time we make it to Ostagar, you’ll be over the worst of it.”

Brosca takes a deep breath, reaching back to touch her bow in an attempt to calm herself. She never felt more at ease than when she had a bow in her hands. “Alright,” she says finally.

“Then let’s proceed,” Duncan says.

The door swings open at a painfully slow rate. Looking ahead, Brosca sees the dirt path leading to the surface, the path that will lead her away from Orzammar forever. Duncan walks ahead and Brosca takes one step forward. Then another. “I can do this,” she whispers to herself.

Gripping the straps of her pack, Brosca keeps along the path, looking at the dirt walls of the tunnel, the familiar dirt ceiling overhead. Dirt and dust meant home. But then she sees the end of the tunnel and her breathing speeds up.

She can’t help but stop a step before the tunnel ends, realizing these are her last steps in Orzammar. One step, one little step - inconsequential for everyone around her, but meaning _everything_ to her - and Brosca stands on the surface for the first time in her life.

And her legs promptly give out.

Duncan moves to help her up, but she pushes him away, terrified he’ll pull her up and she’ll be forced to see the sky. She needs a cavern over her head, not the sodding sky. Did it even end? She can’t feel anything above her. Not one thing. It’s too open and she thinks of the tales she heard as a child of people falling up into the sky. How does anyone _live_ like this?

Around her, she hears people laughing, all laughing at the poor, uncouth sod who’s never left Orzammar before. Brosca braces her hands on the ground and readies herself to stand, but the moment she tries to move her arms, she realizes hoisting herself up is an impossibility. So ignoring the guffaws and cruel words, Brosca crawls to the side of the road on her hands and knees and promptly throws up.

“My head won’t stop spinning,” Brosca says, trying to concentrate on the ground and keep it in one place. _Dirt._ Concentrate on the dirt. Her gloves are fingerless, so she pushes her fingers into the earth, thinking of home.

Duncan kneels next to her but makes no move to help her stand. Instead, she feels his hand on the small of her back, trying to steady her as he hands her a skin. “Water,” he says, answering her unspoken question. “It will help.”

She sits back on her haunches and lifts the skin to her lips before stopping. To drink from the skin, she’ll have to lean her head back and possibly see the open sky above her. She can’t; she’s not ready. So Brosca closes her eyes tight, then drinks deeply. The water is clean, no hint of lyrium or moss which always floats around in the water from Dust Town, no matter how many times they boil it.

“Thank you,” Brosca says, opening her eyes and handing Duncan back the skin. She attempts a smile, to show him he hasn’t made the completely wrong choice, but it is weak. “Bet you’re having second thoughts about now.”

He looks at her then, his eyes seemingly burning away every aspect of her life except the very core of her then. She feels judged and somehow for the first time in her life, possibly not found wanting. It’s a heady thought. “I see a young woman who has had her life turned upside down in the last six hours,” Duncan says, standing up. “She’s just made the most difficult steps of her life and yet there is a smile on her face.” He holds out his hand to her. “No, Serah Brosca, I have no doubts.”

Her cheeks redden at his words. No one has ever called her _Serah_ before; no one ever has ever considered her an equal. And then the truth of this new and different dirt between her fingers dawns on her. For the first time in her like, Brosca has the chance to be judged by her actions instead of the brand on her cheek.

Careful not to look up, Brosca puts her hand - so small compared to his - in Duncan’s and lets him help pull her up. Once standing, dizziness starts to overwhelm her again, so she spreads her feet, shoulder width apart and braces herself, waiting for the sensation to pass. Her eyes already hurt, no denying that; even at daybreak it’s just so _bright._

She takes a breath and instead of the stale air of Dust Town, she recognizes something fresh, something clean. A hint of wind brushes Brosca’s cheek and her mind races, realizing she will have to learn how to shoot a bow all over again. No wind ever blows in Orzammar. Duncan already told her about rain and snow and just the thought, the _challenge,_ of learning how to fight and aim properly in those conditions feels exhilarating.

And in her excitement of wanting to find a practice target, she realizes the world has stopped spinning. With a quick reach back, touching her bow, she takes her first step on the surface. Brosca still chooses not look up, not ready to see the endless sky above her, but she can finally see the road ahead.

**II.**

Brosca watches Flemeth disappear into the Korcari Wilds in a puff of smoke. Her finger runs down the spine of the grimoire, the one Flemeth offered in exchange for her life, and she wonders what sort of secrets it contains. Would a dwarf even be able to understand the spells?

Besides her, Wynn gives a disapproving hum and says, “Deceit is a difficult path to tread.” Brosca hears the disappointment in the mage’s voice but ignores it. Something felt _off_ in the exchange with Flemeth, something she can’t quite put her finger on. If she’s learned anything over the last couple of years, it’s to trust her gut. Granted, her gut has gotten her into some scrapes - that’s why she’s a Warden, after all - but it’s helped more than hurt.

“Are you to tell me you’d prefer to kill an old woman? A mother? Just because someone asked you to?” Brosca asks. “I’m not an assassin.” Zevran coughs, a pointed one, which makes Brosca smile for seemingly the first time today. “Okay fine, I may travel with assassins, but that doesn’t make me one.”

Alistair chuckles, a sound that warms her core. His friendship’s been the one steady influence in her life since the Joining. The only thing that’s calmed her after her dreams. Dreams. It still doesn’t seem real, even after months of them waking her up in the middle of the night. She and Alistair almost always pitch their tents next to each other and somehow, he’s always there when she leaves the tent after a dream, ready to listen or give her water or a bit of food. She hopes never to take his friendship for granted.

The grimoire is meant for human hands and Brosca needs to hoist it up, less it fall to the ground. How in stone’s name will she be able to walk with it all the way back to camp? Alistair, as if sensing her thoughts, scoops the tome out of her arms. “I’ve got this,” he says with a smile. “Always happy to help a beautiful woman.”

Brosca’s cheeks redden. He’s been slipping in compliments like that more and more lately, ever since he gave her that rose. “You just want me to owe you a favor,” she says. A joke, even a bad one, might deflect the attention away from her embarrassment.

“That wouldn’t be too horrible would it?” Alistair asks, placing his hand on the hilt of his sword. “There would be worse things in the world than owing me a favor. I promise to be a kind taskmaster.”

She gives Alistair a slight smile, but turns to Wynn. Best to settle this now, before they start traveling. “Are you willing to keep silent?” she asks, her voice turning serious. This won’t work unless they all agree. If they don’t, Brosca will tell Morrigan the truth and hope for the best. “If not, tell me now.”

“I don’t like this,” Wynn says, which is obvious to anyone listening. “But if Morrigan asks me a question, I won’t answer. I’ll send her your way.”

Brosca doesn’t think she’ll get a better offer than this. “Thank you, Wynn,” she says, letting out a breath. “That goes for all of you. I won’t ask you to lie to Morrigan. Simply tell her to talk to me.”

“I’ll happily lie to the witch,” Alistair says, far too cheerfully. Brosca’s turns her eyes on Alistair, her gaze sour, and he has the decency to look ashamed. “Not that I enjoy lying or anything. Not something I’m practiced at.”

“Thank you, everyone,” Brosca says, deciding a change of subject is sorely needed. “Now how far should we travel before supper?”

#

For days afterward, Brosca watches Morrigan pour over the grimoire. The witch turns each page reverently, her lips moving silently as she reads. Brosca’s never found a book that fascinating in her life. But then again, she’s not had a chance to read many books. Maybe some day.

Just when she thinks that Morrigan is content with the grimoire, and not knowing the details, she follows Brosca to the camp’s nearby stream one morning. “I meant to ask this earlier,” Morrigan says, tilting her head. “Was it difficult?”

She knows exactly what Morrigan means but she’s not ready to answer the question. Wanting to buy herself a little more time, Brosca asks, “Was what difficult?”

“Making breakfast this morning,” Morrigan says, sounding exasperated. “You very well know I mean killing Flemeth.”

Brosca’s always been good at lying. She started young - _I_ _’m not hungry, momma, really_ \- and she only got better with age. It’s not a talent she’s proud of, but it’s a talent nonetheless. A weapon she’s wiling to wield when required. She wonders why it’s so important to her to keep Morrigan from discovering the truth. They’re acquaintances on the verge of becoming friends. But the truth will end any chance of friendship and Brosca doesn’t want to lose that chance. So she starts to look up and finds herself not able to look Morrigan in the eye.

The sun is behind Morrigan, giving Brosca all the excuse she needs. Holding her hand above her eyes to block out the sun - and Morrigan - she says, “It was.”

Morrigan looks away. “Of course it was. I would expect no less from Flemeth.” She wraps her arms around her body, almost like a hug. “One more question and I promise we won’t speak of this again.” Brosca tries not to sigh in relief at the statement. “What did you do with the body?”

Brosca raises her hand again to shield herself from the look of pain on Morrigan’s face. Guilt twists in her stomach, but there is nothing to be done. Morrigan has the prize she coveted. If told the truth about Flemeth, she might leave the party forever and they need her magic. They need her magic like they need the blight running through Brosca’s veins.

The guilt quickly turns to panic. Dwarves in Orzammar bury their dead, cast them back to the stone, but she doesn’t think that’s what humans do. She tries to remember a conversation with Alistair weeks ago, when they spoke of what to do if the other dies. Thankfully, the half-formed memory comes back quickly. “Burned it,” Brosca says, trying not to sound triumphant. “Thought that was best.”

“’Twas the right thing,” Morrigan says somewhat thoughtfully. “Though her memory still seems to haunt me. If there is a life in the beyond, no doubt she is reveling at my discomfort.”

She says nothing else and Brosca wonders if this is her chance to slip away. Hopefully Morrigan will keep to her word and not ask any more questions regarding Flemeth’s death. But just as she’s about to turn to head towards the stream, Morrigan says in a quiet voice, “’Tis difficult having a mother who resents your youth.”

Brosca thinks of her own mother, who she doesn’t even think of as _mother_ anymore, just as Kalah. She thinks of the stories her mother told, how she won pageants back in the day and how men stared at her in the streets. The mother Brosca remembers in her childhood was pretty, before mosswine reddened her cheeks and gave her bloodshot eyes. Before it turned her into a woman Brosca couldn’t even recognize.

“I know,” Brosca says quietly.

Clouds have covered the sun, giving Brosca no excuse not to look Morrigan straight in the eye. She doesn’t think she can, not right now, not when they just exchanged a great deal of information about each other. They have more in common than she thinks, she and Morrigan. A duster and a witch. Seems almost impossible, but it’s true.

She can’t think of anything more to say, so without looking up, Brosca heads to the stream.

**III.**

“Do you think here will work?” Alistair asks. There’s a a slight tremor to his voice, so different than it was just five minutes ago when he walked up to her and announced _I want to be with you._

Brosca understands, how can she not? Only yesterday they fought a high dragon and for one terrible moment, she thought the beast was going to kill Alistair. It was as if her heart jumped out of the chest to entwine itself with Alistair’s. But he lived and she lived, and eventually her heart found it’s way home, but not before changing in the process.

“I think we’re far enough away,” she says, picking up some branches. It’s a little chilly and if they’re about to take off their clothes, they’ll need a fire. Even with her blood beginning to warm as it runs through her veins, Brosca is practical. She knows no other way to be. “If you set up the bedroll, I’ll start a fire.”

“It is a bit nippy, isn’t it?” Alistair asks. “That’s a good plan. Then again, you always make good plans. That’s why it’s best that you-” She shuts him up with a kiss, pulling him down by the front of his shirt. If she didn’t intervene, he’d talk for hours. Once she lets him go, a slow smile spreads across his face. “The very best plans.”

Their private camp takes only a few minutes to set up. Alistair sits on the ground cross-legged in front of the fire. His fingers are tapping his legs nervously and Brosca starts feeling nervous herself. She’s had sex before, but only with other dwarves, never a human. She’s heard things, though, thanks to gossiping with Rica. Stories of human men hurting dwarven women. Not on purpose, but because of the size difference.

She looks over at Alistair and desperately hopes that the rumor isn’t true.

The fire is crackling, the warmth seeping into her veins. Best to get started now, before the fears start to overwhelm. So she walks over to him and settles onto his lap. “Hi there,” Brosca whispers.

“Hello, yourself,” Alistair says back softly. He looks up at the sky but her eyes don’t leave his. “It’s truly a beautiful night out tonight. I’m glad we didn’t bother to bring a tent.”

Brosca’s heart speeds up at his words. Since coming to the surface, she’s spent almost every night in a tent, and those few she didn’t, she found a low tree so that _something_ was over her head. But tonight she doesn’t have that option. Tonight they’ll have sex out in the open with nothing above them.

Sitting like this, face to face, she’s suddenly far too aware of the emptiness above her. These flashes of fear still attack without warning, even after all this time. Oh, _ancestors_ , she wants a roof over her head, something separating her from the sky. Back in Dust Town, Brosca remembers the tales of people falling up into the sky. After more than six months on the surface, she knows it’s impossible, and yet. She understands where the fear came, when someone looked up and couldn’t see the end to the nothingness above.

Brosca needs to do something before she spins into a panic, ruining their evening. Alistair will think it’s because of him even if she tells him a hundred different ways that it’s not. Clutching at ideas, she takes her hand, ungloved for once, and places it on the side of Alistair’s neck. It takes a moment to find, but then the tip of her finger rests on his pulse.

And she stills, the blood rushing through his veins calming her like nothing else can. His pulse is strong, if a bit quick, but then again, Brosca isn’t sure what a regular pulse is for a human. “What are you doing?” he asks, sounding almost in awe.

Somehow she needs to jump off this pedestal he’s placed her on, but that’s a problem for a different day. “Feeling your pulse,” Brosca says quietly. She leans her head forward, resting her brow against his. The earlier panic is gone, leaving only thoughts of _him_. “It’s a private way to show affection. For dwarves, I mean.”

“Really?” Alistair asks eagerly. He mimics her movements at once, his fingers just underneath her jaw. His fingers are calloused, just like hers, but even so, there’s so much comfort at the pressure there. “I think I like this. I think I like this a lot.”

Their eyes meet and Brosca smiles before kissing him like she’s searching for lyrium in his veins. They’re ready.

#

“You’re beautiful,” Alistair says with a contented sigh. His arms wrap around her tightly as if he’s afraid she’ll disappear as he kisses the back of her neck.

She places a hand on top of his, marveling at the difference in size. “Thank you,” she says. “You’re very good-looking, too, you know.”

“Am I?” Alistair says and he sounds delighted at the thought. “I’ve always wondered. Not many mirrors in the chantry. They wanted to keep us all modest. They wanted to keep us all chaste, as well. Look how well that turned out. Suppose that means my ego will be out of control soon, thanks to my good looks.”

Brosca chuckles, and leans back into Alistair. So that was sex with a human. She understands where some of the stories come from now. Sex was awkward and uncomfortable on the verge of being painful in the beginning. Trying to navigate the differences between their sizes didn’t help. She assumed since he was the one who brought sex up, that Alistair would take the lead.

She was wrong. But after awhile, Brosca finally pushed him onto his back and everything went more smoothly from there.

“Do you think we’ll get a chance to do that again?” Alistair asks. She hears him prop himself up on an elbow behind her. Brosca’s content to lay on her side, staring at the fire in front of her. The flames are dancing and she can almost forget that the sky is open above her. Almost. “I hope we have the chance, I mean.” He slides his palm down her arm and she closes her eyes at his touch. “Might not have been the best beginning, but it ended pretty spectacularly. At least, I think it did. It did, right?”

“It did,” Brosca says with a smile. She doesn’t mention that her fingers did a great deal of the work, at least on her end. But this first time wasn’t for her. It was for him. They’ll have the time to learn about each other and to figure out what works. “But next time, let’s go into one of our tents. It’s too much work to set up away from everyone else.”

“True, it was a bit of a pain, wasn’t it? It’s just… I felt like we’d be holding up a giant sign saying ‘we’re going to have sex’ if we just went into a tent together,” Alistair says. Brosca can tell he just wants to ramble, which she doesn’t mind. She likes the sound of his voice. “Then again, dragging out my bedroll and the two of us leaving camp holding hands is just as obvious, isn’t it? Oh, Maker, I don’t know.”

Brosca laces her fingers through his. “Why don’t we just share a tent from now on?” she asks. “I can’t imagine anyone having an issue with that and if they do…”

“They can deal with it,” Alistair says, sounding almost confident. “I like that idea. I like the idea of waking up with you every morning.”

She closes her eyes as she squeezes his hand. “I like the idea of that, too.”

**IV.**

Funny how imposing the gates of Orzammar look from the surface.

Brosca stares at the gates, arms crossed over her chest. She’s put this off as long as she can, doing every possible task and errand she could find. But there’s nothing left to do and the Wardens aren’t ready to fight the Archdemon yet. They still need more help and that help is in Orzammar.

If Brosca had her way, she’d never go into the city again. But she wants to save the world, as well, and unfortunately both can’t be true.

She hears Alistair’s footsteps behind her before she feels his steady presence next to her. He lets out a low whistle. “Those are some bloody big gates. You’d think dwarves would have made them a little smaller.”

He smiles down at her and she can tell he’s simply joking to try to make her smile. But Brosca doesn’t feel like smiling right now. “You’d think,” she says, taking a deep breath of surface air.

When did she become so used to the smell? The air of the surface is so different than the stench of Dust Town. It goes further than that, though. She’s used to surface foods and drinks. She’s used to a human sharing her bedroll. She’s not used to the wide open sky above her, but she somehow doubts she’ll ever be used to that.

“Ah, I know that voice,” Alistair says, bumping her shoulder with the crook of his arm. “That’s your ‘I’m being very serious right now and for the love of the Maker, Alistair, please leave me be’ voice.”

“I don’t believe in the Maker,” Brosca whispers, not loud enough for Alistair to hear.

They’ve never spoken about religion, not really. She knows he believes in the Maker, which to Brosca, seems like a racket set up by the leaders of the Chantry. She might believe in the Stone, but there’s no money to be paid to the Stone. The Stone doesn’t tell you what to do, what’s wrong or right. Seems like a much better system in her humble opinion, not that she would ever tell Alistair that.

Her breathing shallows, and she knows herself well enough to stare down at the ground, to concentrate on the dirt under her boots. Perhaps she should go stand under a tree where the branches will give her the illusion of separating her from the sky.

“Are you alright?” Alistair asks, his voice quiet. “I thought you’d be more excited, coming back to Orzammar, the hero of the hour.”

Brosca makes the mistake of looking up at him. The sky seems to threaten her with its low-hanging grey clouds. It will rain soon. She’s sort of amazed she know that.

“We’re not heroes,” Brosca says, because if there’s anything she’s sure of, it’s that. Alistair can dream of parades and glory all he wants. But she knows the truth. They’re Grey Wardens, and they make the choices they do to survive.

#

“Sister!”

Brosca still can’t believe it. Rica’s done what every noble hunter dreamed of: giving birth to the heir of a noble house. Back in Dust Town, Brosca worried that chasing after nobles would change Rica, somehow. Make her less of her sister. Looking at Rica beaming, holding her son in her arms, Brosca knows she never needed to worry.

“Meet Eldrin,” Rica says, patting the seat next to her. Brosca quickly goes to join her.

She looks up at Alistair and says, “You can go to the tavern, if you want. I think we’re going to be talking babies for a bit. Might be boring.”

“Never, babies are the absolute opposite of boring,” Alistair says with a grin. “Unless that was your clever rouse to try to get me to leave so you can talk about me behind my back.”

“And you say you’re not a master tactician,” Brosca says with a laugh. The heaviness in her chest is finally starting to disappear, now that she knows what to do. At first, the idea of getting into the political situation of Orzammar was absolutely insane. But now that she knows about Rica and Endrin, there’s only one decision to make. While Bhelen’s tactics might be a little unsavory, she’ll never do anything that might bring harm to her family.

Supporting Bhelen in his claim for the throne is the only choice she can make.

“Here, take him,” Rica says. “My arms need a rest.”

Brosca takes Eldrin from Rica and looks up at Alistair. He kneels, close to her side, and together they take a look at her nephew. “He’s so small,” Alistair says in almost a whisper. “I mean, I know dwarves are small, but I never realized just how tiny the babies must be.”

“He’s actually pretty big for his age,” Rica says and Brosca smiles at the pride in her voice.

“He has eyes like yours,” Alistair says softly.

She looks over and him and finds his gaze not on Eldrin, but on her. A sudden pang of regret twists in Brosca’s stomach. They’ll never have this. They’ll never have the chance to make a person together and raise a family. Even if they both somehow manage to live through the Blight, all the odds are stacked against them. Combine dwarven fertility issues with a human father and two Grey Wardens?

It will never happen.

Without a word exchanged between them, Brosca knows he’s thinking the exact same thing. He quickly kisses her cheek and stands while she tries not to think what a wonderful father he would make. With an extravagant bow, Alistair says, “My dear ladies, I bid you farewell. Feel free to talk about me to your heart’s content.”

He turns and with a moment, she and Rica are left alone in the room. She looks at her sister, who is staring at her, eyes wide. “You are telling me _everything._ ”

Brosca can feel her cheeks redden. She’s never been one to talk about sex, not even with Rica. Not when Rica was having sex to try to raise their family out of poverty and Brosca was fucking Leske to give herself an excuse not to go home at night and deal with her mother.

She tries not to think about Kalah. Kalah, who’s still bitter and angry, even living in the Diamond Quarter. To think, all that time, Brosca simply thought her mother was lonely and tired because of Dust Town. To have that illusion shattered, to discover that it wasn’t Dust Town at all, that’s just how the woman is, hurts.

But at this point, it doesn’t matter. Orzammar’s ceiling doesn’t give Brosca nearly the comfort it once did. Maybe it’s just because she’s back, but she almost feels trapped, like she can’t wait to get above ground, into the open air. Well, at least this time she won’t have to worry about losing her supper when she leaves the city.

And once she leaves, if she’s being completely honest, she might never come back. Even if Bhelen is king and Rica is the mother of his heir. Even if she earns the right to walk in any district she pleases. Even if no one looks down on her for being a duster.

If she doesn’t come back, will she ever see Rica again? They can write letters, sure. But that’s not the same as sitting so close to someone you can feel their warmth. If this is to be their last visit, Brosca can put away her shyness and give Rica what she wants. An open and honest conversation, even if it makes her a little uncomfortable. Rica deserves at least that much.

Brosca lets a sly smile cross her lips. “What do you want to know?”

**V.**

How can she have changed so much in only a year?

Brosca closes the door behind her, leaving Alistair and Morrigan alone in the bedroom. She tries not to think of what they’re about to do: have sex to create a child with the soul of an old god. It sounds so ridiculous it must be possible. After becoming such good friends with Morrigan, Brosca doesn’t believe the witch is trying to trick her. Not for this.

Her heart beating far too quickly, Brosca realizes she can’t stay under this roof, under this roof where Alistair and Morrigan will fuck, for another minute. She starts to walk towards the small outside garden of the castle. Here she can be outside but safe. Safe as a Warden about to take on an Archdemon ever can be, at least.

As she steps outside, the cool air brushing her face, Brosca wonders if Alistair will prefer Morrigan to her, once they’re done. Morrigan is human, after all. She’s the right size, the right shape. They probably won’t have any awkward moments like she and Alistair do, trying to figure out positions and angles comfortable for them both. The next time she’s with Alistair, will she worry he’ll miss Morrigan’s human hands?

The sky looms overhead, so Brosca sits against a tree still full of leaves, protecting her from the open air. She’s sure if she looked up, the stars would welcome her, maybe tell her a story or two. But right now, she wants to be alone. Well, as much as one can be alone in a castle full of people.

Why is the thought of Alistair with Morrigan upsetting her so? For dwarves, it’s the way of things. Dwarves have sex for the sole purpose of creating children all the time. For eighteen years, that was Brosca’s normal. From a young age, she was taught that love was a hindrance to dwarves. Making babies, making alliances, those had nothing to do with love. In Orzammar, having children is more important than anything, even love. Look at Rica. She didn’t have the luxury of choosing a partner for love. Yet here Brosca sat, her feelings bruised, because the man she loved needed to have a child with someone else.

When did she start mingling love and sex together in her mind? Her eyes close, and Brosca knows exactly when. That night when she and Alistair were first together. It was certainly a different experience than she was used to. She never felt any sort of desire for the few dusters she lay with in Orzammar. But with Alistair… love and desire and entwined together and it simply feels _right._

And now she worries it will never feel right again.

Her eyes close and she tries to think about the battle ahead. At the moment, dealing with an Archdemon seems preferable to dealing with what’s going on in the castle. Brosca’s not the greatest tactician, but she feels there’s been some improvement on that mark. So she thinks of different possibilities, of the alliances she’s made over the past year, of the strengths and weaknesses of each group. Time passes and she doesn’t think of Alistair and Morrigan together. She _doesn_ _’t._

“There you are.”

Brosca doesn’t look up, not even at the sound of Alistair’s voice. The sky will be behind him, and she just doesn’t want to see it right now. Perhaps that’s being childish, after all, she’ll never live underground again. The surface, with its sky, is home.

Alistair is home, even as she worries he’ll never want her again.

“The silent treatment?” Alistair asks. Brosca glaces up quickly, but only for a moment at that. There’s a real worry in his voice. What does he need to be worried about? It’s she who’s worried. “I suppose I deserve that.”

She pats the ground next to her and idly wonders how long he’s been gone. It doesn’t feel like all that much time has passed. But she supposes the act must have been done quickly, for him to stand in front of her already. Brosca has no idea if that’s a good thing or bad.

He sits down so they’re not quite touching. “I guess you want-”

“I don’t need to know,” Brosca says, even as she climbs into his lap. The thought of not being close to him right now… She can feel him relax as she leans up against him. And she relaxes, too. If he preferred Morrigan to her, surely he wouldn’t be holding her as tight as he is?

“You know I need to talk about these things, get them out of my system,” Alistair says into her hair. “Or next thing we’ll know is we’re fighting the Archdemon and I’ll blurt out how I thought of you the entire time. And I don’t think it possible to hate myself as much as I do right now.”

That wouldn’t do. Not at all.

Awkward as it is, turning around when sitting on someone’s lap, Brosca does. She places her hands on his cheeks and makes him meet her eye. “You have nothing to hate yourself for,” she says, meaning every word. She loves him so much it hurts, sometimes. The thought that he hated himself for something that she asked him to do, hurts more than she cares to admit. “You’ve given the Wardens the best chance possible to survive.”

“For us to survive, right?” Alistair asks, hope in his voice. “If we both live through this, it suppose that’s worth something.”

“Exactly,” Brosca says, resting her cheek next to his. “We’ll kill the Archdemon and we’ll both be alive after. I’d say that’s worth quite a lot, actually.” She leans back and searches his face. This night hasn’t changed him, she thinks with relief. It hasn’t changed _them._ “And you can tell me whatever you want about what happened. I’ll listen.”

Alistair sighs and she knows she’s going to hear some of the details she’d rather not. But she also knows that to listen to him so he realizes that she accepts the ritual, instead of pretending tonight never happened, will help him far more than anything else. So she’ll listen.

“She gave me a potion,” Alistair says, sounding a bit awkward. “To shall we say, perk myself up. Nothing I ever needed with you. Then it was quick. Practically over before it began. Didn’t even take my clothes all the way off.”

Brosca bites the inside of her cheek and hope he doesn’t say more. “Well, I’m glad you’re here now,” she says. And it’s true. Now that the ritual is over, she’s worried and scared about the battle tomorrow and would rather not be alone tonight.

“I know I have no right to ask this,” Alistair says quietly. “But… I keep thinking, if something were to happen to one of us on the battlefield. And the last person I was with was someone other than you…”

Brosca lifts her hand and presses her fingers against the pulse in his neck. It’s the same pulse she felt this morning and it will be the same pulse she feels tomorrow. The only pulse she’ll ever want to feel under her fingers.

“Would it help if I told you I took a quick wash before I came out here?” Alistair says, sounding serious. Brosca laughs, because, yes. It does help. A little. “Even washed behind my ears and you know just how pointless I think that is.”

She leans forward and kisses him, wanting to memorize the way his lips feel against her own. When he pulls her flush against him, Brosca decides she’s glad Morrigan approached her this evening. Almost anything is worth the chance not to lose _this._

**VI.**

Her lungs are on _fire._

Brosca reaches back for an arrow, her very last one, only for her hand to grasp the empty air. Somewhere along the line, she miscounted. She wants to curse, she wants to scream, but she can barely breathe, so she stays silent instead.

The unexpected happens. The Archdemon falls to the ground.

Alistair is too far away - the last knock back pushed him far behind her - and this might be their only chance. Brosca looks around wildly, looking for something that could be used as a weapon as she doubts beating the Archdemon to death with her bow will actually work.

She sees a sword. A greatsword probably bigger than she is. Ignoring her lungs, ignoring the entire world around her except the sword in front of her, Brosca takes off at a sprint. Behind her, she hears Alistair call out her name, no doubt he wanted to do the killing blow, just in case.

There’s no time. Already she can see the Archdemon starting to rise. She has to do this.

Brosca picks up the sword with a desperate strength. Oh, she’ll pay for this if she lives. But there’s no guarantee, is there? As much as she wants to believe that the dark ritual will work, these could be the last steps she ever takes on this earth.

She doesn’t want to die.

So she wields the borrowed sword and hopes that she doesn’t fuck up.

#

When she finally opens her eyes, the first thing Brosca sees is the sky.

Every bone in her body _hurts,_ hurts so much that she can’t even will the energy to look away. But for the first time in her life, she welcomes the sight. She welcomes the openness above her. Brosca takes it all in: the slight red tone of the clouds- which would have terrified her eighteen months ago - and birds flying overhead.

Because the sky means she’s _alive._

She’s alive and she’s breathing and-

“Alistair?” she asks, her voice more like a croak than anything else. Her throat is parched. What she would give for a glass of water. Or even mosswine. Brosca pushes that thought away. She will _never_ want wine to cure her ills. There’s too much of a danger of ending up like her mother.

Tears well up in Brosca’s eyes and she wonders why she’s thinking of her mother. She also secretly wonders if her mother will be proud of her. Brosca supposes it truly doesn’t matter one way or another, really. She just likes the idea of her mother thinking of her and for once in her life, not regretting having a second child.

“Oh Maker, you’re alive.”

Brosca can hear the relief in his voice, the same relief she’s ready to cry tears of joy about. “The Archdemon?”

“Wait, don’t try to move yet,” Alistair says.

She hears him kneel down next to her as she ignores his advice, propping herself up on her elbows. In front of her is the Archdemon. She wants to recoil, but instead she looks away. In the corner of her eye, she sees Wynne. Good. “Is the Archdemon dead or not?”

Alistair kisses the top of her head. “Dead. Dead and never to return. We’ve made sure,” he says, his voice gentle.

“Help me up?” Brosca asks, holding out her hand. She doesn’t want to be on the ground any longer and wants to be standing. She’s usually not one for pride, but she just killed an Archdemon and lived to tell the tale. If that doesn’t deserve a bit of pride, she doesn’t know what does.

“Wynn would rather you sleep,” Alistair says, brushing back some hair stuck to her forehead. “She gave you a healing potion. Then a restoration potion. And then some green potion I didn’t recognize.” Brosca simply gives him a look and he helps her up. “You know I can’t deny you anything. That’s just not playing fair.”

Brosca lets him help her up off of the ground and immediately puts his arm around her shoulder, resting against him. He’s taken off his chestplate, leaving only a thin shirt of chain mail. Not the most comfortable thing to lean on, but it will do.

“Morrigan?” Brosca asks, looking at the group scattered across the tower. She sees no sign of the witch. While she expected that, it still hurts. She’ll miss her friend.

“Took off the second after the blast. I tried to stop her,” Alistair says and there’s a slight bitterness in his voice. That won’t do. Not now, not when they’ve won. “Told her she owed that to me after everything. But she just left.”

“We’ll find her,” Brosca says. The situation makes her uneasy. The thought of Morrigan out there alone without knowing the truth about Flemeth? Brosca should have told her friend the truth after all this time.

“Eventually,” Alistair says. He starts to grin. “After all the parties and celebrations and ceremonies they’re going to have in your honor. Promise that you’ll remember me when you’re famous? That you won’t forgot poor Alistair. I know-”

He’ll never shut up at this rate, so Brosca does the only sensible thing. She grabs the front of his undershirt and pulls him down to her level. Alistair takes the hint at once, dropping down to one knee. “I’m going to kiss you now,” she says.

“Haven’t I always said you make the best plans?” Alistair says.

Brosca closes her eyes as they kiss, amazed at how much lighter she feels, with the weight of the Blight off her shoulders. Oh, there will be so much to do - she and Alistair rebuilding the Grey Wardens in Ferelden to start - but she’ll worry about that tomorrow. Today she’ll let herself relax and recover and _rest._

“We won,” she says, her voice close to a whisper, nuzzling his face, feeling the stubble from his beard slightly scratch her face. Maybe some day she can convince him to grow a proper dwarven beard, instead of the patch of hair on his chin. But again, that’s a thought for tomorrow.

Alistair’s arms are strong around her and without warning, he stands up, taking her with him. Brosca’s breath catches in her throat. They’re on top of a very tall tower and now he’s lifted her up in the air so her feet are well off the ground. She’s the closest she’s ever been to the sky and for a moment it frightens her more than the Archdemon did.

But then she takes a breath and looks down at Alistair’s face. He would never harm her, not on purpose. If there’s anything she’s certain about in this world, it’s that he will always be there to catch her if she falls. And she’ll do the same for him.

This, this maddening world where water falls from clouds and where the sky is always changing colors, is _her_ world now. It’s the world she’ll choose to stay in for the rest of her life so that she may walk beside Alistair. The world she had no obligation to save, but did it anyway. The world where she can be so much more than a duster.

After all she has done, how can she ever be content to again live with rocks over her head?

Brosca lifts her face towards the sky, arms stretched out wide. The dangerous red sky has been replaced by a softer, gentler red. “Red sky at night,” she whispers, remembering a rhyme Alistair taught her not long after being on the surface. “Warden’s delight.”

The Archdemon is dead. The Wardens will rebuild. She and Alistair are alive _._ Brosca looks up, eyes open. The sky beckons and she has nothing to fear.


End file.
